The Compromised Factor
by Theatre Phoenix
Summary: Returning from the dead, introductions to secrets, resurface of forgotten nightmares, new faces, old enemies - Life is all about the unexpected. Mycroft and Sherlock do not handle unexpected well. Sequel to 'Unseen Factor', Enola Holmes in BBC Sherlock.
1. Return and a Year

Enjoy the next adventure of Enola with her family. Warning, this is a much darker story than the first dealing with much more intense issues that were only alluded to in the first, and, two words - serial killer.

As always, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any characters from the original short stories or the BBC show; the same for the Enola Holmes stories and characters from there.

Much thanks to 'a wolf is a perfect paradox' for beta reading and 'Lackie' for brain storming with me.

* * *

Life had become dull. London was no longer a battlefield. It was now just streets with cars, sidewalks with people going about their dull lives without giving it much thought.

It was driving John Watson completely mad.

Despite the dullness, a lot of things happened to him since the fall of his best friend. The first major thing was he had moved out of Baker Street; too many memories, happy ones at that which made it so painful to stay. This, of course, did not mean that he did not come every so often to visit Mrs. Hudson.

He also found a job at a clinic; nothing exciting, just very simple medical care. Some days 'simple' was all he was able to handle.

It had been a particularly long day at the clinic and John was not in any mood for pranks. John had just reached the stairs when there was a knock on the door. He debated for a moment on whether or not he should ignore whoever was knocking and go to bed. But John had discovered years ago the annoying fact that he was too nice to ignore the knock.

Sighing in frustration at himself, he opened the door.

"You're surprised to see me." The man at the door said in a strange croaking voice once both men finished appraising the other.

"Yeah," John was indeed surprised to see him. He had run into the man earlier that day near the clinic. John was not looking where he was going and accidentally bumped into the man causing his collection of old books to go flying to the ground. Embarrassed by the act, John knelt down to aid in picking up the books and to apologize. But the man was so upset over the treatment of his books that he snatched the books from John's grasp and with a snarl of contempt turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

John did not expect to ever see the graying blond bespectacled man again, yet here he was with the same old books wedged under his right arm.

"I've developed a bit of a conscience over the past few years," He explained as he walked past John inside. "I wanted to make sure that my gruff manner wasn't taken offensively; I meant no harm by it."

"No, I understand; it isn't fun having your things dropped," John reassure the man as he tried to discern why he let a complete stranger inside when he realized something. "How did you know where I live?"

The man smiled. "You pass by the bookshop I frequent on your way to work. The one of the corner of Church Street. Perhaps I can interest you in one of these." He motioned to the books under his arm. John noticed the titles 'British Birds, 'Catullus' and 'The Holy War'. "As an apology for my behavior. It would fill the area on that end table; it looks untidy does it not?"

John looked over his shoulder to the table near the door where he usually threw his keys. Yes the apartment was untidy, perhaps at times too much for the military man he had been but living with Sherlock had led to him coming to tolerate a certain level of untidiness and now, with his friend gone, he felt he could not live without it.

When he turned back before him stood Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had already removed the wig and was now taking off the spectacles and placed both on top of the books he already placed at the foot of the steps.

Sherlock was alive. Alive and standing before him. Alive and looking in decent health. Alive and not smashed against the pavement with blood rapidly spreading around him.

Alive.

"John, I –" Sherlock began speaking in his normal voice, but was not able to finish since John landed a right hook to his face.

Sherlock stumbled back a bit but was able to catch himself on the banister. The two men started at each other. John was in shock and was not quite sure how to feel. He began to pace back and forth not taking his eyes off of the person on the steps; he took in deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating. He was now quite certain that he had actually hit a real person, who was now bleeding a bit from the mouth and not a hallucination. His hand pulsed with pain, so John was certain he actually hit something and not just air.

Eventually, he stopped pacing. All in all, he knew that there was one thing he wanted to say.

"Don't you ever pull a stunt like that again!" John choked out; he began to register a mix of anger and relief flooding his system as he looked at his not dead friend.

"I have no intention of doing so." Sherlock rubbed his cheek. "John, I owe you a thousand apologies for the past three years. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

What Sherlock did not yet add was how it had effected him so, had many times he himself had yearned for London and John's paper rustling in the background while the smell of scones wafted up the stairs from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen below. How thinking of them had kept him going for so very long.

Then launched a night long discussion between the two men; a discussion filled with questions, explanations, plans. Before John realized it he was swept up into another adventure with Sherlock solving the recent and tragic murder of Ronald Adair that had happen a few days prior.

-MHSHEH-

After a shot, a scuffle, and a bit of shouting, Sherlock said hello to Lestrade.

"I think this is the point Lestrade where you put the handcuffs on the suspect." Sherlock deadpanned as he stepped away from the groaning crumple figure of Sebastian Moran. "I also might add, had you spent any time working on your aim Detective you may very well have finished what Moriarty started." He carelessly waved over the the wall bearing the damage of the recent fray.

"You bloody arrogant – "

"I've got Moran!" Lestrade's Sargent, Isabelle Bordeaux, practically shouted as she stepped past him to cuff Moran. She knew that some reactions were best not verablized.

Lestrade, after the initial shock wore off, was just as surprised as John and equally pleased. He was in such a stupor that his new Sergeant had to handcuff and take away Moran while Lestrade threw his questions at Sherlock.

Despite being glad that Sherlock was alive, Lestrade could not have him consult with any cases at the Yard. There were still a few of Sherlock's old cases that were up for inquiry. Since the Fall, as people had dubbed the event, all of the cases Sherlock consulted on came under review to see if the correct conclusion was arrived. Things were double checked, and then tripled check. To the chagrin of those who greatly disliked Sherlock, each review concluded that the consulting detective was correct.

During the first year after his return, Sherlock went to several inquiries when his presence was needed for questions. John accompanied Sherlock to the proceedings for support and to make sure he behaved. For the most part Sherlock kept his smartass remarks to a minimum and answered the questions without much fanfare. His answers were short and to the point, one could almost say terse.

But John watched Sherlock when he was not on stand; he saw what others did not.

Sherlock seemed nervous and wanted to be somewhere else. But he kept still in his chair, eyes closed and fingers pressed together taking in everything that was said. He only opened his eyes when he was called to the stand and when the proceedings were finished for the day.

The only thing that Sherlock complained about concerning the Inquires is that it took people three years to learn that he was correct. With this being his only complaint, John was more surprise that he had not insulted anyone or reduced anyone to tears. John often pondered on what Sherlock had said that first evening he came back, that he had learned aspects of human interactions better and wondered if it was true.

After every inquest Sherlock would quickly leave the court room, with John close behind, and outpaced the reporters hungry for an expose. If a reporter did catch them, Sherlock said nothing; he waited for a cab and ignored the questions thrown at him and even refused to look at them.

Once back at Baker Street John saw the subtle signs of Sherlock beginning to relaxing.

"I've never liked testifying." Sherlock once remarked after one inquest. "I've never like being told what I could and could not say." He then picked up his violin and slowly began to play. John wondered how much of that was true.

Of course Scotland Yard could not stop Sherlock from consulting on private cases. Of which there was no short supply.

As with before Sherlock was highly particular about which case was worth his time. At first both men were hounded by reporters and paparazzi; but as the months wore on the sensation Sherlock's return and subsequent clearing of all charges laid at his door waned so did the thrill seekers.

John could not have been happier.

But that did not stop John from noticing slight changes in the way Sherlock handled things.

He was coming back from getting the much needed shopping when he heard Sherlock was with a client.

"What do you mean you can't help?" The desperate client asked shocked.

"I can't." Sherlock said simply with no malice in his voice. "But I know someone who can."

John was a bit taken aback when he heard that last phrase from his friend; he almost dropped the shopping because of it. He entered the room with the shopping just as Sherlock was handing the woman a sheet of paper from his notebook.

The client looked at the paper then back to Sherlock. "Thank you Mr. Holmes."

John stepped out of the way as the client left. When he heard the front door close he looked carefully at Sherlock.

"What?"

"Since when do you refer potential clients to other people?" John asked before making his way to the kitchen.

"Dull," Sherlock shrugged before picking up his violin and tuning it. "Someone else would find it interesting."

"Really?" John looked questionably at Sherlock. But before he could question Sherlock further Mrs. Hudson entered the flat.

"This came while you were gone, dear." She handed Sherlock a thin largish brown paper package.

Sherlock smiled at the landlady as he took the package. Mrs. Hudson returned the smile before she left. Since Sherlock's return, she was happier than John had seen her in years. She had more easily forgiven Sherlock for his deception, only after she had seen him eat an entire plate of food since who knows when he had last eaten a decent meal. And while she continued to insist she was their landlady and in no way their house keeper, John had come home many nights from the clinic to find her stuffing scones and other sweet treats into Sherlock with plenty left over for him.

"New York City postmark, no return address." He opened the package and smirked. It was one of those photography books one would buy to decorate a coffee table or one that a person would find in a doctor's office to mindless read while waiting. A note fell out when Sherlock opened the book.

John read it as he picked it up on the way to his chair: _Work well received with demands for more. I hope you don't mind the title._

Instead of a name there was a sketch of what looked like a vine of ivy.

He handed it to Sherlock. "No name; do you know who it's from?"

Sherlock handed to book to John as he took the note. John looked at the book as he sat down; it contained pictures of people and sites all over the world from India to America. Sherlock chuckled at the note that had accompanied the book.

"Who is Vilhelm Sigerson?" John asked looking at the cover of the book. It was entitled _The Great Hiatus_.

"Me," Sherlock picked up his violin and inspected the strings. "It was an alias I used while I traveled taking down Moriarty's web."

"You took these pictures?" John was in disbelief.

"Is that so surprising?" Sherlock furrowed his brows when he looked over to John.

"I've seen those pictures you took of Connie Prince's brother! You couldn't focus the camera on anything." John pointed out. He looked at one of the photographs; it was rendered in black and white of an ancient bridge looking over a river that ran through an equally ancient city, the focus of the picture was of a young woman, oblivious to the picture being taken, her focus was on the river. She sat on the railing, rested her back against one of the many columns that lined the stone bridge that had statues perched on top in different dramatic poses with her legs crossed in front of her. John was not much for an art critic, but he would say that it was a good photograph.

"I had to learn to make my cover credible." Sherlock picked up the bow. "If I ever need to use that alias again the presence of the book makes Sigerson a bit more plausible."

"I think this is the most you've ever talked about your time away." John remarked quietly. "You've been back about . . . what, ten months, and you haven't said much about it."

John could count the times that Sherlock looked lost for words on one hand and this was one instant. Sherlock was posed to play on the violin but the bow stayed just above the strings.

"Sherlock?"

"A lot happened," Sherlock remarked briskly deciding against playing. He put down the instrument and sat in his chair. "I will tell you John about those three years, all about them, but not just yet."

The sincerity in Sherlock's voice surprised John so he dropped the subject for another time.

Of all the things that surprised John the most with Sherlock's return was how pleasant he was acting towards Mycroft. A few months after Sherlock's return, John began to notice that Mycroft often visited Baker Street and only came when John was not there.

"After what he did to you, how can you stand to be in the same room as him?" John demanded after he walked in on the tail end of a conversation the brothers were having.

The brothers stopped abruptly speaking when they realized they had an audience. They bid each other a good day before Mycroft grabbed his things and left. John barely looked at Mycroft and as soon as the older Holmes left John glared at Sherlock.

"We talked." Sherlock said defensively and cryptically. "And now we have a new understanding."

"What? Not to reveal your life story to any more criminal masterminds?" John could not understand how a simple talk could solve the deep seeded conflicts the Holmes brothers claimed to have with each other. "He sold you out Sherlock."

"Yes, I know!" Sherlock almost snapped. He understood John's perspective; he was unknowing of many things that had transpired between the brothers thus Sherlock could not accuse him of being unreasonable. He also knew it went against every fiber of John's loyal nature what Mycroft had done. Sherlock may have been able to forgive Mycroft for the actions he took when his hand was forced, yet he wondered if John would ever be able to even just talk with his brother. "We are working to make sure that never happens again. It's best for all of us."

"What did you talk about?" John asked wanting to better understand. He may not like Mycroft being around but he could at least try to respect the brothers' efforts. Less international incidents that way.

"We – " Sherlock's phone rang. He debated whether or not to answer inside his head and decided. "Yes . . . What do you mean paperwork? Of course I want to consult for the Police. . . Alright, I'll come later today. Good, then."

"Was that Greg?" John asked when Sherlock ended the call.

Sherlock nodded. "Apparently the new Chief Superintendent is willing to let me consult as long as I complete a ridiculous amount of paper work."

"It's a step forward." John pointed out crossing his arm; he was on the defensive, waiting for the subsequent tantrum that would have occurred before the Fall.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Yes it is."

Picking up his bow, he turned to the window and began to play. In his wake, John stood shocked at the turn about in Sherlock, first pleasant to Mycroft and then agreeable in the face of paperwork for the police. Some things most definitely had changed.

Of course there were things that had not changed at all with Sherlock.

A bored Sherlock was still a very dangerous one.

John still remembered walking in one day finding his friend still in his pajamas and robe shooting madly at the wall. The eerie yellow smile was still there, on the wall as a tribute to that one episode.

Right now it was the calm before the storm.

A thick fog had descended upon London for several days leading to a pause in cases for Sherlock and John, the first since Sherlock's return a year ago.

John was contented to sit and read the newspaper to pass the time in the lull of cases. But Sherlock, on the first day, had taken to cross referencing every book that was in the flat, including the ones owned by Mrs. Hudson; the second day he spent reading over Medieval music, John thought he heard at one point Sherlock humming a few bars; but by the third day Sherlock restlessly paced the room, biting his nails, tapping the furniture – anything and everything to use the suppressed energy within him.

Thus far John was doing a good job of ignoring Sherlock's chafing against inactivity, but then John had begun to wonder how much longer the poor floor could take the pacing.

"Anything John?" Sherlock asked fanatically waving at the newspaper.

Knowing that Sherlock would not be interested in a revolution in some foreign country or a change in the stock market, John shook his head.

"The criminal element has certainly become a dull fellow in my absence." Sherlock complained looking out the window. "Just look! See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim."

"There are a few petty thefts reported," John offered.

John's remarked earned him a glare from Sherlock as he moved away from the window.

"No, this somber stage is worthy of something better than that." Sherlock collapsed dramatically into his chair with an equally dramatically sigh. "It is very fortunate for the community that I am not actually a criminal. Argh! Anything to break this dead monotony!"

John could only smile at his friend's antics; he found them to be a comforting reminder that Sherlock was back from the dead.

"Maybe Lestrade could finally call with something interesting." Sherlock mumbled to himself lightly banging his head on the back of the chair.

In another part of town a woman was walking carefully in the fog and was not smiling. She did not like the sensation of being encased in fog isolating her from the rest of the world. Her only connection to the world was the sounds of the city and the few people, like her, who dared to take on the fog. She could hear about three, maybe four people around her, hidden by the thick cloud. One of which was mirroring her movements.

Someone was following her. Every step she took her pursuer copied as if to hide his own steps by the sounds of her own. She did not like it.

Pausing for a moment to gain her bearings she took a turn to shake off her pursuer.

An uneasy feeling crept over her as she made a turn only to realize her move ended her in a dead end ally, just what her pursuer wanted. Seeing little else she could do, she dropped her handbag and turned just as her pursuer reached for her.

As with any big city there are loud noises that are hard decipher, so the attitude of apathy develops simply because there are too many noises to care about every single one of them. That said, people heard scuffling, thuds, a few bins being tossed over and finally the screech of some feral cat. Everyone associated the noises to the cat chasing something blindly in the fog, so certain were they that no one pauses to consider they might have heard the muffled yells of the woman or a car door slamming shut.

No, a cat was an easier and far less emotional answer for the noises in the alleyway. People would have continued blaming the cat until a body was discovered in the alleyway next to the knocked over bins. A large man with a shaved head and tattoos peaking out from his jacket collar and sleeves. His face was not much to look at; especially considering that half of it was blown off by the executioner style gunshot wound from the back of the head.

* * *

You probably noticed very familiar descriptions here; I'm taking a lot of inspiration from the original Sherlock Holmes stories.


	2. Changes, Transfers and Promotions

If the first chapter was to show what happened with Sherlock and John, this chapter shows what happened to Lestrade.

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, and followed.

A big thanks to 'a wolf is a perfect paradox' for helping me making sure the characters stay in-character, and to 'lackie' for brain storming with me.

* * *

Things change; they always do. Lestrade only had to reflex over his own life to know that saying was true. He sighed as he looked over his current case files and his notes.

Lestrade looked up wearily from the piles of paperwork through the window to his Sergeant, Isabelle Bordeaux, who was working diligently at her desk.

She started working under Lestrade about two years ago when Sally Donovan and he could no longer work efficiently together. It started shortly after the meeting with Ivy Meshle with the first evidence of Sherlock's framing. Donovan transferred to work with a different DI and Lestrade did not stop her. He understood her reasons and quite frankly she was getting under his nerves with her constant questioning of his methods.

No one quite understood how or why Lestrade was able to keep his position. Of course he was given lesser cases but that seemed to be his only punishment. Donovan continued to work with Lestrade if only because she thought that he would loose his job over the whole Freak fiasco and she felt pity for him. But Lestrade stayed and continued working.

At first the disagreements were minor, but as the months past the arguments became unbearable to the point that very few were willing to work with the both of them. If they were separate there was no problem. It did not surprise Lestrade when Donovan handed him the transfer papers.

"Good luck," Was all Lestrade said as Donovan left his office. Donovan said nothing but closed the door with a little more force than what was necessary.

That is when Isabelle entered the scene. She was newly promoted to the position of Sergeant and very willing to prove herself that she should not be judge solely on her youth and inexperience. She was rather young to be a Sergeant, but her hard work and success in the field proved that she was more than capable. Her reddish brown hair was kept in a French braid tucked in on itself, but a few wisps of hair always fell out and framed her face. Unlike most people in London she had a slight tan to her complexion despite spending most of her time indoors pouring over reports and evidence.

The only thing that really surprised Lestrade about Isabelle was when he found out that she was from New Orleans. He simply did not expect it, though of course he had never asked.

"Mama is English, Papa was Cajun." She explained after he found her yelling at a malfunctioning copier, that was truly on its last leg, in strangely accented French. She stopped short of kicking the machine when she saw Lestrade standing in the doorway with his mouth hanging open in shock and a file in hand. "After papa died we moved to England to live with mama's family."

"How old were you?" Lestrade asked when he handed her a cup of coffee. They both went to his office to share a cup of bad cop coffee as Isabelle told her tale instead of standing in the copier room after her outburst. Lestrade wanted to know about his Sergeant, her strengths and weaknesses for future reference as they worked together; he did not want to alienate her as what happen with Donovan.

"Seven," She gingerly sipped the coffee and slightly grimaced at the taste. "But every summer I would visit my grandparents and they were quite insistent that I wouldn't lose of any of my Cajun heritage; hence my odd accent which has become the brunt of so many jokes here."

"You're odd accent?" Lestrade looked credulously over his cup.

Isabelle smiled. "When I'm not angry I can give a pretty convincing native-born English accent, but sometimes my Creole does slip though. I think most of the jokes stem from the fact people don't realize that I don't speak French, I speak Louisiana French."

"And the copier?" He was not really upset over her behavior; the copier was getting on everyone's nerves. He was just simply surprised but the outburst; she had usually been very quiet, only speaking when needed.

"In my defense it had it coming," She smirked behind her coffee cup when she was the glint of amusement in her boss' eye. "But for the future I will try not to get frustrated with inanimate objects again."

"Just as long as you don't shoot them." They both shared a laugh.

"That might be a bit more difficult." She smiled.

It was not long after that talk that Isabelle essentially became his right hand in matters and became quite indispensable to him. It also helped that when she took charge of any situation her manner broke no denial. In the months after the copier insistent, Lestrade knew that she would make a great detective; she was smart, observant and hard working. There soon was a trust that developed between them that never existed between Lestrade and Donovan.

Lestrade would see Ivy Meshle from time to time whenever he was out working on a case. She would nervously wave before she was off doing whatever it was her boss, Ragostin, needed her to do. He wished she would stay put long enough for him to give a proper thank you for her work in bringing in the evidence clearing Sherlock's name. But as it was she barely was there for their shared hand wave.

When Sherlock returned from the dead it was revealed without a doubt the truth behind Richard Brook, or as he was actually known, James Moriarty, was that he was actually a criminal mastermind. Lestrade was vindicated for his support and use of Sherlock over the years.

Isabelle was one of few people in the force where the groaning and gnashing of teeth did not originate from.

"So he was dead and now he isn't." She remarked after they processed Moran. She found Lestrade sitting in his office. Guessing at the possible state of her boss she came armed with a cup of tea. "Dear me, Mr. Holmes is just full of surprises, isn't he?"

"This is just the first of many," Lestrade said still in shock. His mind was racing with the possibilities of what might happen because of Sherlock's return. He finally looked down at his hand and realized he was holding a cup of tea. He looked to his Sergeant who only smiled and shrugged.

"At least things won't be boring." She smiled trying to reassure him. "I think it will be better than last time."

"Why do you say that?" Lestrade looked at her. A few months prior he told her everything about Sherlock's fall from grace; he included everything from Donovan approaching him with her suspicions to him calling John Watson to warn him of the impending arrest of Sherlock. He had grown to trust her; she had earned that trust.

She shrugged. "People make mistakes, hopefully they learn from them."

It was now about year since Sherlock's return and Isabelle was not scared away by him from his reputations, despite the attempts of her coworkers.

It might have also helped that Sherlock had not worked any case with the Metropolitan Police since his return keeping his contact with Isabelle minimal. She did get unnerved when she received a text from him with a few clues for Lestrade on a particular difficult case; nothing big, just something to push the investigation in the right direction.

She demanded to know if Lestrade had given her number to Sherlock as she held up her mobile with the unexpected text on the screen. He did his best to explain about Sherlock's texting habit without sounding too annoyed at the consulting detective. He knew that it would be implausible to promise his Sergeant that it would not happen again. But, as it turned out, Isabelle was more annoyed at the fact that Sherlock had not bothered to text 'Hello' before bombarding her with tips.

"He has to buy me a cup of coffee first before he can text me." Isabelle said with exasperation that Lestrade could not tell was real or not before returning to her desk.

Small favors, Lestrade thought. Perhaps if Sherlock had done acts of consideration before - Lestrade stopped that train of thought. The past was the past, it could not be changed. He did hope that the past would not repeat itself.

"Hey boss." Isabelle stuck her head in Lestrade's office. "You've been summoned."

"Summoned by whom?" Lestrade nearly wanted to bang his head against his desk in frustration at the interruption. But he refrained from doing so firstly because it was a bit childish and secondly it was an unexpected, but welcomed, interruption from the sheer amount paper work that he had to deal with.

"Chief Superintendent Lucas." She said. Lestrade sat straighter at her answer.

"Any mention of what he wanted?"

Isabelle shook her head. "Not directly, but with the way the rumor mill is turning at this station and the whispers out of earshot, I would hazard a guess that it has something to do with Holmes."

"With my luck Sherlock tried to butt in on a crime scene." Lestrade sighed as he stood. "Have you gotten the ballistic report yet?"

"Not yet," Isabelle stepped out of the way and Lestrade walked past. "I was about to go down to see where tech is with that. Anything else, boss?"

"Go over the crime scene photos, especially the ones of the hallway; there's something I think we're missing." Lestrade said walking down the hall with Isabelle in tow as he thought over the most recent murder case he was given.

"Got it." Isabelle hurried back to her desk and picked up her phone.

Lestrade had only met Chief Superintendent Michael Lucas once when he came into the position a few months prior. Since Sherlock was cleared of all accusations it looked bad on the higher ups in Scotland Yard to so blatantly accuse an innocent man of such a horrible crime. Many took the option of an earlier retirement to avoid any further embarrassment.

One of those newly opened positions was filled by Lucas. He transferred in from outside London so he had no taint of the falsely accusing scandal on his name. It also helped that before his promotion to Superintendent he was a very successful detective with a high case closure rate.

Lestrade's impression of Lucas was that he was hard as nails and had a very dry sense of humor. But he was skilled in public relation which the police desperately needed at the time.

Lestrade was at one of the many press conferences that were held as demands for more through investigations into police procedures multiplied. He sat in the back to listen what the new Chief Superintendent would say and hoped that no one would recognize him. Lucas calmly sat through the questions and the thinly veiled insults.

"It is certainly a mess," Lucas stated. He sat up in his chair to lean closer to the microphone. "But the error here lies not totally on police protocols but in the fact that the police are human. We all try to do what is best but mistakes are made because we are not infallible. The badge doesn't stop mistakes; it just makes us more responsible of them. This all started with a strong dislike for a particular man and the presence of planted evidence. I can guarantee that the trail of evidence and the conclusions from evidence gathered will be better handled. I can't guarantee my police officers not to act human – I wouldn't want them not to be human and neither should you."

Lestrade had been impressed by the man since then. Lucas had inherited a mess from his predecessors but was handling it rather well.

Lestrade arrived at Lucas' office and sighed. He had learned early in his career to hope for the best but never expect it; there was less disappointments that way. He straightened his jacket out of habit and knocked.

"It's open." Lucas called.

Lestrade found Lucas at his desk poring over reports. The office itself looked more like a storage room than an office due to all the boxes overtaking it. Only the window and a few pictures of what Lestrade guessed to be his family on the wall did Lucas keep the room from being completely storage.

"Unless you're Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, please go." Lucas was at his desk leaning over it with a hand to his forehead supporting it as he read one of the many reports on his desk, writing in a nearby notepad when needed. He did not look up when he spoke and did not pause in his writing. "I have too many badly written reports to go through."

"I'm DI Gregory Lestrade." He said closing the door behind him.

Lucas looked up and nodded, waving the detective to come further into the room. "Good, I actually need a break from these reports. Honestly, does anyone teach the skill of writing anymore?"

Lestrade just looked at Lucas stunned; it was not because he was struck dumb, it was just he was not sure how he should answer.

"You can relax, Detective." Lucas removed his reading glasses. "You're not here to be reprimanded." He lightly tossed his glasses on his desk and leaned back in his chair.

"Then why am I here, sir?"

"I want to hear about Sherlock Holmes," Lucas explained and motioned for Lestrade to take a seat in the only chair that did not have a box on it. "I want to hear about him from a source that isn't coated in hatred, bias, loathing or even extreme annoyance. I want a completely objective opinion on which I can make a carefully thought out decision."

"Why do you think I'm that source?" Lestrade was trying to gauge what sort of tactic Lucas was employing; the Chief Superintendent was proving a difficult man to read.

"In this mountain of reports is one that you wrote about eight years ago where you first mention Sherlock Holmes," Lucas waved his hand to the boxes around the office. "You were the first to bring him in as a consultant. Why?"

"Is this a test, sir?" Lestrade asked as he sat. He wanted to be annoyed that his last question was not really answered, but found it difficult to do so. From what Lestrade had seen and heard of Lucas was that he was not a career-minded man, but more focus on getting actually police work done as best as possible. Lestrade could respect that.

Lucas chuckled. "When is life not a test?"

Lestrade thought for a moment. "Sherlock Holmes is one of the most brilliant minds I have ever come across. Give him five minutes on a crime scene he will see things that most wouldn't. He's able to make conclusions just by looking; and it's later confirmed by forensics. But above all else you had to resist the urge to punch him in the face."

"Did you? Punch him, I mean."

"Always tempted, but never acted on it. Some days he was more difficult than others."

"But you put that aside because he's useful."

"As I've said, he's brilliant."

"I take it he doesn't play well with others."

"It depends on who the 'others' are sir."

"Oh,"

"He is not the most socially aware individual on the planet. But his friend, John Watson helps him in that area."

"Isn't he the one that did that blog about the cases Holmes worked on?"

"Yes sir."

"Is he a good man?"

"I trust him."

"I see." Lucas thought over Lestrade's words then nodded. "Alright then." Lucas opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a file and held it out to Lestrade. "Have your consultant fill these out then he can start working with us again."

Lestrade gaped at the file. "Sir?"

"I would like to makes something very clear, Lestrade." Lucas explained placing the file on the edge of his desk within Lestrade's reach. Lestrade was afraid that he would lose sight of it amongst the other files on the desk if he took his eyes off of it, but he forced himself to look at the Chief Superintendent. "I am giving you my expressed permission to use whatever resources you find to help you solve cases. I have no problem with consultants Lestrade if they greatly aid in the investigations. Everyone in the police force is a tool; I like to keep my toolbox well stocked of useful tools. If Mr. Holmes is beneficial to an investigation I would be remiss if I did not allow his services, albeit his annoying quarks. If having him consult for us means that we find the perpetrator faster and more efficiently, then I damn well better have him consult. Even if he's an arrogant sod.

"My main requirement is that whenever he is involved with a case his name has to be in the report. There is other regulations he has to follow" Lucas continued. "If Mr. Holmes wants to be anonymous then he can use the tip line and not show his face at a crime scene. Am I clear?"

"Completely sir." Lestrade nodded. He took the file from Lucas' desk and briefly skimmed it. It was paperwork for outside consultants, stating regulations and rules for interaction with the police and handling of evidence, liability dealing with injuries obtain on the job and so forth. A smile tugged at Lestrade's lips thinking over Sherlock's reaction to the new 'restrictions'.

"Do keep me inform of everything," Lucas replaced his glasses on his face. "I look forward to working with you, Lestrade."

-MHSHEH-

"Hey boss," Isabelle smiled when she saw Lestrade returning from Lucas' office. She was in the midst of looking over the crime scene photos, pinning them to the partition walls, and comparing them to the ballistic report she finally was able to obtain. "I see you've survived to fight crime another day."

Lestrade nodded but his expression was part confusion, part shock and part pleasant surprise. "He's given the OK for Sherlock to consult."

Isabelle gave a low whistle of surprise and her eyes widen. "I foresee the very loud anguish cries of many when word of this gets out. When can he start?"

"As soon as he fills out this paperwork." Lestrade held up the file for Isabelle to see. "He has to be official and his involvement has to be noted in the reports."

She nodded. "That's right; he liked to be anonymous in a lot of the cases he worked. Do you want me to call him?"

"No, I'll do it." Lestrade already has his mobile out ready to dial as he headed to his office.

Isabelle smiled as she returned to the pictures pinned up all around her. Despite the grisly view before her she could not help but feel good. She was glad that Lestrade was in a good mood and even notice a slight up beat in his step.

"It's gonna be very not dull here." She smirked as she circled in red a new possible clue in one picture.

* * *

Please leave a review and tell me what you think.


	3. Crime Scene the First

My sincerest apologizes for the delay. That annoying thing call Real Life reared it's head and scared my muse and my time away.

Thanks to 'a wolf is a perfect paradox' for helping me with this chapter.

* * *

It was Sherlock's first proper investigation with New Scotland Yard since his return. He was positively giddy.

From Lestrade's description over the phone it promised to be on of substance; at least that was what Sherlock was telling John. If it was anyone else other than Sherlock getting excited over a murder John would have been worried. But if anyone was to ask John would freely admit that he was happy to see his friend back in his game. It had been too long for both of them.

Riding in the cab John had to hold back a whistle. Knightsbridge was not a section of the great city of London that made an attempt to hide the wealth that resided there. Sherlock took no notice of their surroundings as he was looking up something on his phone.

Sherlock dashed out of the cab leaving John to foot the bill. John caught up with Sherlock just before they reached the tape barrier of the crime scene. He thought about the running tab of all the cabs Sherlock forced him to pay and wondered how he was going to get his flatmate to pay him back.

"Just try to get along with everyone." John begged as they approached, continuing their conversation from the cab. "Even if they're idiots." He added quickly for good measure when Sherlock opened his mouth.

"Would you feel better if I read from cue cards?" Sherlock asked humorlessly.

"I just want you to be careful." John said. He understood Sherlock's frustration, and Sherlock, in turn, understood John's concern. But that did not stop either man getting a little annoyed with the other.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes."

Both men looked over and on the other side of the yellow police tape was Sergeant Bordeaux, who waited for them with her arms crossed and a smile. John had met her a few times prior; she was pleasant to John with none of the prejudices towards him for his association with Sherlock that the rest of Scotland Yard had.

"Lestrade's description of you is spot on." She held out her hand over the tape. "Isabelle Bordeaux, – "

"Lestrade's Sergeant." Sherlock cut in, shaking her hand.

She closed her mouth, taken aback by the interruption, but smiled. "Indeed I am. It's good to see you again Dr. Watson." She added to John before lifting up the tape. "Body's on the lower ground floor, right down the stairs. And just to let you know, it's not pleasant."

"Cajun." Sherlock said as he stepped under the tape.

John inwardly groaned; he now just hoped that nothing too offensive left Sherlock's mouth.

"Sorry?" Her smile did not falter; it just now looked a bit confused.

"Your r's," Sherlock said as way of explanation. When he saw no note of understanding he sighed, turned his sights to Isabelle and launch into a fuller description. "You're very comfortable speaking a second language, probably grew up in a bilingual household. Judging by how you form your words I would say French, but certainly not continental French. No, the other side of the Atlantic is more likely. Your h's excludes Canadian French, but has a strong influence, leaving – "

"The Bayou." Isabelle nodded, almost laughing. "Yes, actually," Isabelle sounded impress as John also stepped under the tape. "But only – "

"Half." Sherlock interrupted again. "On your father's side."

Isabelle looked a bit dumbstruck with her mouth slightly open. She looked to John than back to Sherlock.

"Oh!" She suddenly exclaimed. "I get it. This is you showing off, right? Lestrade warned me about that. So, is the bit where I'm supposed to get annoyed or in awe of your skills?"

"What else has Lestrade told you?" Sherlock choice to ignore the 'showing off' remark.

"You are annoying, but damn brilliant." She tilted her head in thought. "But I find most brilliant type people are annoying, so nothing new. Lestrade's inside waiting."

She shooed them away towards the house and went back to crowd control, not that there many people there. Altogether John found it a much more pleasant entrance than when he had been forced to deal with Sgt. Donovan at the tape of every crime scene.

Entering the two men found themselves in a large space that doubled as a sitting from and further back in an alcove as a reading nook. There was an officer already there taking pictures of the room who directed them to the stairs leasing to the lower ground floor directly in front of the front door.

"In here." Lestrade called out when he heard them land on the last step. Sherlock and John followed the voice to the home office, Sherlock's eyes darting back and forth as he took in the surrondings.

The office had one wall to the left of the door covered with architectural sketches with an artist table in front of it that had more sketches scattered about. The next wall over was a book case filled to the brim with reference books, papers, and small models. Then the wall right of the door had bright colored pictures of buildings ranging from skyscrapers to country cottages. In the middle of all of this was the body of a woman. She was dressed in a business causal khaki trousers and pastel pink blouse.

The way the body was sprawled on the floor looked like an uncomfortable position as though she crumpled to the ground. The clothes were ripped and bloodied and the blood had dried causing various shades of red and brown. There was also quite a bit of dried blood matted to the body.

Sherlock did not immediately jump to the body; instead, he went to the book case and looked back to the door.

"Notice something?" Lestrade asked.

"Odd, just odd." Sherlock mumbled not really as an answer for Lestrade, but the Detective Inspector took it as one. Sherlock finished with whatever he was looking at and hunched over the body. "This was done over the course of several days." He pointed to the injuries on the upper left arm. "There are already signs of cicatrisation forming. She was bound by handcuffs behind her back."

"Of what forming?" Lestrade asked.

"Scars." John explained

Sherlock motioned for John to take a closer look at the lower back; the shirt was twisted about the torso allowing a good view of what Sherlock wanted him to see without disturbing the body. Beneath the cuts and matted blood John could make out a bruise. It was an oddly shaped bruise about five centimeters long, rectangular with evenly spaced horizontal lines; John would liken the shape to a ladder.

"She fell on her back while cuffed." John ventured.

Sherlock nodded. "You also won't find any immediate connection between the victim and the owners. This was just a body dump."

"According to the neighbors the owners are away on a holiday." Lestrade referenced his notes. "We're still trying to get in contact with them."

"So what's odd?" John asked.

"The fact the body's even here." Sherlock explained standing. "This is a rather high traffic neighborhood, young families milling about; a bit difficult to get rid of a body with the high likelihood of someone taking notice. It's not a simple body dump. This was plan down to the slightest detail. I also do not believe that this was done to implicate the owners. Look around; nothing's disturbed, or it's made to look as such. Except for this." Sherlock walked back to the bookcase. He point to a framed picture of a family. "The dust, a week's worth, is unsettled around here. It was moved by the person to put the body here."

"But, why?" Lestrade asked.

"It's a message." Sherlock looked intently at the picture, taking in everything he saw.

Before anyone could say anything else, John's phone went off. He quickly grabbed it and saw that it was Mary calling and he suddenly remembered that he had been expecting her call.

"Excuse me," John mumbled quickly and he dashed outside hoping that he did not forget anything else.

Sherlock did not say anything as John left; it was just one of the many things that had changed in his absence. John's life has other parties involved, and Sherlock was not going to hold it against his flatmate. He had already put John through enough.

Sherlock would never admit it but he was completely relieved when John welcomed him back into his life with so little anger. Granted, he did probably deserve the hit to the face; a fair price that Sherlock was willing to pay for John.

-MHSHEH-

It was a good phone call and one that John needed. A smile lingered on his face as he ended the call.

"Can you tell me if Sherlock Holmes is working this crime scene?" A woman appeared at John's side, an American judging by the accent. She was scanning the scene looking at everyone on the other side of the police tape.

John did a double take on the woman. She was what one would describe as . . . simply put, she was gorgeous. Dark hair, fair skin and green eyes; she wore a dress suit under her coat that one of John's previous girlfriends would have gushed about and saved for a year to get just the blouse or even just a button from the blouse.

John would have been tempted to ask for her number if he was not already seeing someone.

"It's an ongoing investigation . . ."

"I'm not a reporter, sir." She politely interrupted him, even though he trailed off, with a smile. It was a reassuring smile; one that a person would give to convey understanding. What she understood was unclear. "I'm not looking for a scoop. I'm just looking for Sherlock to give him a message."

With the way that Sherlock worked, John did not think he would enjoy an interruption from . . . whoever this woman was.

"I can give him the message." John instantly regretted the offer as the woman gave him an incredulous look.

"No offense doll, but how do I even know you'll pass it along?" She crossed her arms and leaned her weight to one foot. With her highly fashionable clothes, the pose looked like it belonged on some high-end fashion magazine. "Besides it's personal."

"What 'personal' message could you give to Sherlock?" He asked, genuinely confused. He was certain that this woman was not a client. He worked with Sherlock with all of his cases since his return and he was quite sure that he would have recognized her striking face.

Something must have clicked in the woman's head because a huge grin broke out on face.

"You must be John!" She exclaimed joyfully like as though meeting a friend one had not seen in ages. She held out her hand. "I can't tell you how happy I am to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you. I'm Tekla, I'm friends with Sherlock."

John went through the motion of the handshake with his mouth hanging in surprise. Forgotten words now drifted into John's mind from his memories.

"I don't have friends." Sherlock had once insisted while trying to apologize to him.

Another aspect of Sherlock that was different.

"I hope I didn't break a fuse up there." Tekla added looking closely at John when she released his hand.

John closed his mouth. "Sorry, I'm just . . . I'm just not use to hearing people willingly describe themselves as friends with Sherlock."

Tekla held back a snort; with anyone else the act would have been comical, but she pulled it off without losing the sophistication that oozed out of her. "That doesn't surprise me. I worked with him on and off over the past two years. We would take bets on how fast he would annoy the Hell out of someone."

"We?"

"My friends and I; we all worked with him. It was worth it just to see his face get all scrunched up as he scowled at us. That was probably when we heard the most about you."

John coughed a bit uncomfortably. "Really?"

"Really," Tekla smiled fondly. "I thought you would have known. Kept saying how you would never subject him to such treatment. It wasn't hard to see how much he missed you."

John felt a smile forming on his face, it was good to know that he had been missed by Sherlock as much as he had missed him, but it was stopped when he saw Donovan and Anderson talking behind Tekla. They were both wearing scowls on their face in discontent. He knew it was because Sherlock was on the scene. They were not saying pleasant things in regard to Sherlock's person.

Despite all the accusations dropped and Sherlock proven an innocent man, Donovan and Anderson still had many unkind things to say about Sherlock. Neither of them liked to see the consultant working with the police again. It was more of embarrassment to them that made them so sour towards Sherlock.

Seeing the change in John's face, Tekla turned around to see what caused it. "Who are they?" She asked when she turned back to John.

"No one important." John bit out. John really wanted to go over and demand to know why Donovan was even there. There was no reason for her to even be present, this was Lestrade's case and she was working with a different DI. Barton, or something of the like, but John was not too concern with remembering names at the moment. Sherlock did not need them here on his first crime scene back and John just wanted them to go away.

"If they weren't important they wouldn't make you react like that." She pointed out. Tekla quickly looked over John's expression and became slightly concern. She listened to what the two were saying; her eyebrows lifted with mild surprise at what they were saying and understood John's reaction. "If I ever get murdered in your country I do not want those two investigating my death." Tekla pointed over her shoulder to the two offenders

They noticed that Sherlock stepped out looking up something on his phone. Suddenly a grin broke out on her face that John could only describe as puckish. "Excuse me a moment." She handed John her black clutch and gave him a wink. With a laugh that matched the grin she crossed under the police tape to Sherlock who was standing close by. She made sure that she caught the attention of Donovan and Anderson as she sauntered by. When Sherlock saw her, he looked slightly annoyed by her presence.

"I'm working." He stated flatly, pocketing his phone.

"Is that what you call it; I thought you were just bored and decided to annoy the neighbors." Tekla shrugged taking a step closer to the detective and spoke softer but still loud enough that others nearby could still hear. "I just wanted to say thanks . . . for last night."

That caught the full attention of Donovan and Anderson, who suddenly became mute; along with a few other people nearby, but those people thought it best to continue their work. Some, especially those who had worked with the police before Sherlock faked his death, were surprised to see a brightly smiling woman so willingly stand close to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked curiously at Tekla as she ran a finger over the lapel of his coat. "What are you -?"

His words were cut off by Tekla grabbing his coat lapels and pulled him down into a, surprisingly, intense kiss. The entire crime scene came to a halt with several items slipping forgotten from loose grips. Sherlock did not know what do; his arms were between pushing her off and hanging at his side, and his eyes stayed open with surprise written all over them. Tekla released him from the kiss looking more mischievous than before and quite pleased with herself.

"I had a lot a fun," Tekla added with a glint in her eye that would have made any man, other than Sherlock, agree to anything she said. "I'll see ya later." She smoothed down the lapels with extra care.

There seemed to be an extra spring in her step as she walked away from the stunned crime scene. "It was great to finally meet you John." She added brightly treating the whole situation rather mundanely and ordinarily. The cheeky wink as she passed told John otherwise.

"Good to meet you too," John's brain was not able to come up with any other response. Tekla smile as she grabbed her clutch from him and retrieved a small mirror to make sure nothing need to be touched up on her face. After a quick reapplication of lipstick she gave another wink to John and saluted with her clutch to Donovan and Anderson as she walked passed. She soon disappeared around a corner and the crime scene was still stunned.

"Did the Freak just get -" Donovan started but was too shocked to finish.

"I suddenly feel off . . ." Anderson did look unsteady.

"Alright!" Lestrade's voice cut through everyone's shock. When he scanned the scene he noticed Donovan next to Anderson. Heaven only knew what those two were up to. He felt rather please at the aghast looks on each of their faces and made a mental note to find out what Donovan wanted later. "Back to work."

"Care to share?" Isabelle asked when she, Lestrade and John converged on Sherlock. She looked more amused than shocked and seemed to enjoy everyone's surprise.

"Who was that?" John could not help but ask. It was the question on everyone's minds.

"That was Tekla," Sherlock took out a handkerchief to wipe off the bit of lipstick that had smeared on his lips. He did it with more force than needed as thought he was trying to wipe off the kiss itself. "She works as an art appraiser from time to time. She assisted me in certain cases taking down Moriarty's organization that dealt with art forgery."

"She's your girlfriend." John wanted to know. Everyone wanted to know.

"Tekla is _certainly_ not my girlfriend." Sherlock said exasperated as he returning the handkerchief to his pocket.

"I never took you for a 'friends with benefits' kinda guy." Isabelle added the air quotes as the amused smirk on her face got bigger. She was enjoying seeing Sherlock squirm a bit; it made him more human for her instead of this bigger than life person his reputation made him out to be.

Lestrade smiled a bit at Isabelle's teasing; she did it to everyone at the station. She had this way of twisting everyone's words around to mean something completely different than originally intended. It was never done with ill intent, as she explained it to him, but a way to get people to take themselves less seriously. It appeared that Sherlock would not be an exception.

There was no maliciousness in her teasing that made John wished that Isabelle had always worked with Lestrade and not Donovan. Logistically that was not possible as Isabelle was still learning the ropes of police work four years ago. Lestrade had confided in John that the reason Isabelle was assigned to him was because no one else wanted a Sargent that was so inexperienced and many were still wary of working with him. It was probably her inexperience that made it so easy for her to work with Sherlock; she had no expectations.

Perhaps it was a bless, perhaps a cruse. Only time could decipher that.

If looks could kill, the look Sherlock was giving Isabelle would have put her in the hospital for a few days. Isabelle just continued to smile at Sherlock unaffected. John was just glad that Sherlock was not throwing some insulting deduction in her direction.

"Oh, I'm gonna have fun working with you." Isabelle remarked with a satisfied sigh. "Boss, you never told me he was a fun guy to work with." She glanced at Lestrade who was very glad his Sergeant was getting along with Sherlock with her own flair.

"I'm sure." Sherlock returned drily before turning to Lestrade. "There's a white powder on the victim's collar that I want to test. I believe it will lead us to the primary crime scene."

"I'll get forensics on it." Lestrade made a note in his note pad.

"Prefer to do my own." Sherlock said giving Lestrade a pointed look.

"Fine, get your sample," Lestrade resigned. "Bordeaux, make sure he does it correctly."

Isabelle gave Lestrade a salute before heading back inside. Sherlock only glared.

"I don't need a nanny."

"I know you don't," Lestrade tucked his note pad into his jacket. "But those are the rules."

They had talked about it when Lestrade had given Sherlock the paperwork. There would be extra scrutiny with the first few cases that Sherlock consulted on to prove that nothing was awry. Mostly to any remaining doubts over the consultant's viability to rest. That meant everything by the book and step by step by the book at that.

It was a long conversation between the three men at the flat in Baker Street, Lestrade had decided to bring the paperwork there instead of Sherlock coming to New Scotland Yard; about a hour and half the conversation shifted from the new regulations to other things about anything and everything. It felt almost . . . normal. Well, about as normal as one can get when talking about murder cases and killing methods.

The conversation ended when Sherlock received a call. John assumed it was Mycroft with the way Sherlock snapped when he answered. John walked Lestrade to the door and bid him a good night.

"That was different." Lestrade remarked as he shrugged on his coat.

"Yeah," John agreed. It seemed that Sherlock was finally making an effort to be polite, but there seemed to be more under that. There was an odd sense that Sherlock was trying to reconnect with Lestrade. Not just as the Detective Inspector who was willing to work with him, but on a more personal level.

Friendship, perhaps?

Whatever it was, it was pleasant.

By the time John returned upstairs, Sherlock was already pouring over the forms on the kitchen table with an annoyed expression.

"This is ridiculous." Sherlock muttered turning over a page.

The rules were actually quite reasonable and understandable. John kept repeating that whenever Sherlock complained about a regulation he would be subjected to with the Yard. John had been tempted to simply record him explaining the explanation because he was tired of repeating himself, knowing how stubborn Sherlock could become, especially when he was in a mood. Fortunately, Lestrade had called with the current case before Sherlock could complain again.

In what could be best described as Sherlock biting the bullet, he nodded and followed Isabelle back inside to the body. Lestrade looked at John when Sherlock was out sight. Both men shared a laugh.

"It's good to have him back." Lestrade smiled. John could not help but agree.

* * *

I hope I did not shock anyone too badly, but Tekla will do as she pleases.

Please review and tell me what you think.


	4. Investigating and Other Activities

Much thanks to 'a wolf is a perfect paradox' for her help.

* * *

"Hello Molly! I hope you're not too busy, I need to use your lab." Sherlock said in one breath as he breezed into the pathologist's lab with John close behind.

It took Molly Hooper a moment to realize who had just stepped into her lab and when she did Sherlock had already set himself at a microscope.

John actually stopped for his greeting. "Molly."

"John." She smiled.

Over the years that Sherlock was hiding, John and Molly had become better friends. They connected on levels other than their association with Sherlock; they talked of their shared medical background, random new medical studies that they thought the other might appreciate, or even the weather.

Never Sherlock.

That had become the unspoken rule between the two; for John because it was, at first, too painful then it became something he did not wish to dwell on and for Molly because she was unsure if she would unconsciously let something slip to let John know that Sherlock was alive. It was greatly stressed to Molly by Mycroft that Sherlock's status should remain hidden, especially from John. While Mycroft's manner was not threaten it did bear the air of not being trifled with.

Though John and Molly had become better friends they were not extremely close. They were not ones to go and share a cup of coffee together. But whenever their jobs caused them to cross paths they were more than willing to stop and have a chat.

Upon learning of Molly's involvement in Sherlock's plan, John wanted to be mad, upset, anything towards her. But in the end he just could not make himself hate her, or any negative feelings. While he may have not like Sherlock's plan, there were parts of it that he could not argue against. One of those being Molly's help in falsifying his death.

Of course this was not public knowledge. If it was known Molly could lose her position at St. Bart's for falsifying records.

It could only be assumed that Mycroft had a hand in hiding Molly's involvement. Of which she was very glad. She was never hounded by reporters like John and Sherlock, being asked embarrassing or irrelevant questions. Molly was never one of those persons who could deflect questions thrown at them. She was very good in her field, but outside of that she was nervous.

This was not the first time since Sherlock's return that he came to use Molly's lab or visit the morgue; he had some uses for them with his other private cases. It was during these times John notices more changes in Sherlock's demeanor towards Molly. While Sherlock would still barge in uninvited he would take a moment to say hello, and before he left he pause at the door with a thanks. Once in a while Sherlock would bring her a cup of coffee, which he would explain by saying he owed Molly coffee for all the cups she had brought him before.

Small gestures that meant a lot, but Sherlock never dwelt on them so neither did John or Molly.

There were still the moments of the consultant's blunt, brutal honesty. Those moments still stung Molly, John would get after Sherlock and Sherlock would, of course, look at him, clueless and oblivious as to what was wrong. Some things just cannot be expected to change.

"Sodium hydroxide," Sherlock looked up from the microscope. "The white substance on the victim's collar – dry sodium hydroxide."

"As in lye?" Everyone turned to Isabelle who had just entered the lab. "For tanning hide?"

"How do you know that?" Molly asked.

"I have an uncle in the business." Isabelle shrugged.

"I thought you said your uncle was a carpenter." Molly remarked.

"Different uncle," Isabelle made a beeline towards Sherlock who returned his attention to his sample. "Papa came from a very large family. I have more on the vic." She out her notebook from her jacket pocket. "Her name was Annie Moore; she was reported missing twelve days ago by her roommate and best friend, Jessica Nguyen hadn't seen her for two days. Both girls worked – "

"At a brokerage firm, assistants to the partners of the firm." Sherlock interrupted. "Employers consider Annie Moore very efficient and thorough; essentially she kept the firm on schedule and everything organized. Wasn't in any relationship of any sort, left handed, dyed her hair brunette from her blond to be taken more seriously in her field of work."

Molly and John were use to Sherlock rattling off list of information about people and they both wondered how Isabelle would react.

"And she enjoyed doing the chicken dance while hoping on one foot." Isabelle remarked monotonically. That earned her a bewildered glare from Sherlock. "Yeah, that's how it feels. Anyway, asked around and everyone says the same thing."

"Well liked by everyone." Sherlock finished.

Isabelle thought a moment before turning to John. "He likes to have the last word doesn't he?"

"Yes," John did his best to suppress a snicker. To be honest he did not really try that hard.

"Did you find out anything useful?" Sherlock demanded.

"Finally was able to get in contact with the owners," Isabelle returned to her notes. "Heads up, the husband's not a pleasant guy; anyway the family's been out of London for the past week for a holiday. Like you predicted, they don't know Annie Moore and they've never had any dealings with the firm she works with. But both the husband and wife were very defensive when being questioned, they might know more than they are letting on; could bear further investigation."

"And you considered that useful." Sherlock did not sound impressed with the information.

"Sherlock," John warned.

"Not good?" Sherlock quickly glanced at John.

"Just a tad." Isabelle nodded putting away her notebook. "Merci pas coute arien.*" She added under her breath.

"Il vaut mieux suer que trembler.**" Sherlock responded in a dry manner.

"Ok," Isabelle gave an uncertain smirk almost laughing. She was not sure if his use of Continental French was a disdain reaction to her more low brow Creole. For the moment, Isabelle decided to let it slide, but she had to admit it was nice to hear someone else speak a form of French; it reminded her of her summers spent with her paternal grandparents and her late father. "How does dry sodium hydroxide assist with the investigation?"

"Possible lead in locating the primary crime scene." His explanation was brisk, he had already stated that before and wished she had listened then.

"Right." Her response was flat; she remembered him mentioning that to Lestrade but the chance to give him some slight annoyance was too tempting to pass by. She smiled at Molly. "How soon can we expect the autopsy report?"

"I should have it by the end of the day." Molly said.

"You won't find much." Sherlock quipped.

"Does anyone ever get the urge to just slap him across the face?" Isabelle did not miss a beat as she posed the question to John and Molly. John suppressed a chuckled and Molly only looked at her in surprise. "The kind of slap that would leave a nice big red mark; preferably on his right side since most people are right handed the left side of his face might be use to slaps, so the right side would sting a bit more."

"No," Molly honestly replied. It was no secret that Sherlock had been harsh and cruel to her in the past. But the thought of striking back never crossed her mind. Words were a better tool; words were something that Sherlock would understand. That is, of course, if he listened.

"Yeah, not really your style is it?" Isabelle smiled again.

Isabelle's first case with Lestrade was a straightforward murder. The autopsy report was rather simple and Molly dealt with it quickly. Isabelle arrived at the morgue to pick up the report and was nice enough to bring coffee to the pathologist. The two women ended up talking for hours about this and that with the end result of Molly very much liking Isabelle.

Unlike John, Molly would have coffee with Isabelle and talk of things outside of work that ranged beyond the medical field. It was nice for both women to have a girl friend to be able to chat about things,especially when their work took them to such gory, unsightly places indeed.

"Hell, I'll ask anyway," Isabelle turned back to Sherlock. She leaned in close to his face til their faces were almost touching "Why won't we find anything on the body?" She asked a bit too loudly.

Sherlock quickly leaned away so Isabelle would not be shouting in his ear. Resisting the urge to snap at her, he set his face and returned her stare.

"Think." He pushed.

She took a step back and thought. "If going off how little we found at the body dump, we could consider the sate of the body to be similar; the killer probably took as much care to hide anything on the body that would identify him. But it wouldn't hurt to at least take a look."

Sherlock looked at her before standing and heading to the door. "Maybe there's hope you yet, Sergeant. Thank you Molly." With a wave over his shoulder and a grab of his jacket he left the lab.

"Don't mind him." John quickly said as he went to follow Sherlock.

"Was that supposed to be a compliment?" Isabelle asked as John passed her. "Backhanded not withstanding."

"I think it was." John shrugged before leaving himself hoping that Sherlock had not abandoned him.

-MHSHEH-

After a day of looking for alkali suppliers and finding no odd purchases or missing inventory, John was tired. He had to work tomorrow and it would not do with him falling asleep at the clinic. That was a mistake that he did not want to make again. He just wanted a good night's rest.

With everything that is involved with Sherlock, well laid plans tend to unexpectedly change as John discovered when he entered Baker Street.

After having so many people coming in and out of the flat seeking Sherlock's help over the years John should not have been surprised to find two men he did not know in the sitting room, Mrs Hudson probably let them in.

One was of average height and muscled built, with lightish brown hair and the type of tan that indicated he was often outside but not purposely working on bronzing his skin. The man had the stance of someone completely aware of their surroundings and ready for anything but took up the facade of relaxing. John recognized it having seen enough people in the service, especially those who were out in the field often, with a similar stance.

He was seated on the couch along the wall watching the second man with a slightly exasperated expression, but he seemed accustomed to whatever was going on in front of him.

John, however, was not; the second man was a bit taller and leaner than the first with fairer skin and darker hair; for some reason he looked vaguely familiar. Unlike the first man, he showed signs of working indoors, only venturing out when absolutely necessary. He was standing on a chair in front of the moose head waving a small electronic device about it while at the same time seeming to be having a staring contest with the head.

"The headphones are a nice touch." The first man said, with a distinct American accent, New York if John was placing it correctly, as he stood and offered his hand. "Terasach Carleton."

"John Watson." John shook the visitor's hand and tempted to keep eye contact. But his eyes kept wondering over to the second man staring at the moose. "Sorry, what exactly . . ."

"Don't mind him." Carleton waved off the second man. "He's mostly harmless."

"Marcus Hatcherson!" The second man exclaimed, also with an American accent, still staring at the moose. "Hatch for short; we're friends of Sherlock."

The word 'friend' hit John, surprisingly hard; well, not that surprising really. He was use to Sherlock not telling him certain things about himself. He doubted he would have ever learned about Mycroft from Sherlock if Mycroft had not introduced himself first. But then again, people willing to describe themselves as Sherlock's friends was still odd.

"Really," John could not think of anything else to say.

"Really," Hatch parroted jumping down from the chair. He looked intently at the device in his hand. He then waved it about in front of John and looked at it intently again. "Excuse me." He made his way to the kitchen and methodically waved about the device around everything.

"What are you doing?" John called out after him.

"Scanning for bugs." Hatch called back followed by the clinks of things being moved.

"What?"

"Listening devices small enough to be easily hidden." Hatch popped his head in. "Do I want to know why there's a container of CO2 in the kitchen?"

"Think for a moment who lives here." Carleton remarked, to which Hatch nodded and disappeared again.

"So, how long have you known Sherlock?" John asked trying to keep his immense curiosity in check.

Carleton had a mild surprise look on his face before answering. "We worked with him for a few years on and off."

"Same as Tekla." John murmured to no one in particular.

"Ah, you've met Tekla," Carleton chuckled. "She is an experience."

"Yes it was." John agreed. "I don't think she could have shocked anyone was much as she did when she kissed Sherlock."

"Hold the phone!" Hatch reentered the room and was now holding Sherlock's harpoon as a staff and leaning against it. "Who kissed my wife?"

"She's your wife?!" John was now in shock and feeling a bit confused. With good reason he should say.

"You kiss her?" Hatch now pointed the harpoon at John who quickly shook his head. Best not mess with a man who holds a sharp object in one's face.

Carleton stepped forward to gently push the harpoon out of John's face. Hatch had seem to forgotten he was holding a sharp object when he elected to use it as a pointer.

"Tekla kissed Sherlock." Carleton sighed. Apparently Tekla's behavior was not surprising since Hatch just nodded. Any anger that might have been in the man's face was gone in an instant since he now understood.

"Right." Hatch left the room again, harpoon in tow over his shoulder.

Taking a few moments to reexamine what just happened in his head, John turned to Carleton. "He's . . . not mad?"

"It's Tekla." Carleton said as though that was the only explanation needed. "And it was with Sherlock. Well, I guess it depends on your definition of 'mad'." He added when he saw the confusion still lingering in John's face. "He hasn't told you about us?"

"Should he have?" John was just feeling more dumbfounded. He suddenly recalled something that Tekla said in passing at the crime scene; about how he should have known. It seemed there were a lot of things John should have known since Sherlock's return but he was still skittish about approaching the subject with John. Unfortunately, John's patience was becoming thin.

The sound of the front door slamming shut rang through the air and the sound of footstep followed up the stairs snapping John out of his thoughts.

Sherlock paused when he saw Carleton next to John, as though he was not expecting the presence of the man.

"Where there is one, there should be the other." Sherlock remarked looking around the flat.

"Right here." Hatch reappeared again from the kitchen with a smile on his face. "You look well."

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked. Well, it was more like a subtle demand.

"Can't we just swing by and say hello to a friend?" Hatch asked.

"No." Sherlock knew better than to settle on such a simple explanation. In the back of his mind he was wondering how he was going to explain them to John. While John's face remain placid, his eyes were curious and determined; Sherlock would not get away without an explanation as easily as he may have before.

"Working vacation." Carleton explained. "Nice place ya got."

"Working on what?"

"Seriously?" Hatch huffed a little. "No 'Hey how ya been?', 'Good to see you too.', or even a simple 'hello'. But I will admit it's nice for you to ask as appose to deducing."

"We should be so honored." Carleton smirked.

"Please don't." Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. He sounded a little exasperated.

"Good news." Hatch pressed his hands together and used them to point to Sherlock. "Your apartment is bug free. Bad news, I think something is growing in your fridge."

"That's an experiment." Sherlock said. John was surprised when both Carleton and Hatch said the same thing as Sherlock in perfect unison with him.

"Yeah, I figured." Hatch said.

"What are you working on?" Sherlock repeated his question.

"We're looking into a few leads concerning a job; brought us here to London." Carleton sat back down on the couch.

"Plus our Fearless Leader is doing a lecture tour or something like that, at all the major universities in Britain." Hatch added. "We thought we would tag along. Oh, and what were you doing kissing my wife?"

Half of John wanted to laugh at Sherlock's exasperated expression and the other half wanted to warn Hatch of the impending danger he was dangling himself in front of.

"She kissed me." Sherlock stressed.

"I got that, but why?" Hatch was not surprised in any way; he was almost deadpan in his question.

"Hell if I know!" Sherlock threw his hands up. "Half the things Tekla does makes little to no sense."

"She overheard Donovan and Anderson talking about you." John revealed causing the other three men to look at him. "They still don't like your consulting with the Yard."

"That's not surprising." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But that still doesn't – "

"Yeah, it does." Carleton smiled.

"I have an awesome wife." Hatch said fondly. "It was her way of getting them to shut up."

"Well, it worked." John had to agree. It was an odd course of action to him, but he could not deny that it did make Donovan and Anderson mute. It made everyone mute.

"Anyway," Hatch clasped his hands together. "We're glad to hear that you're working on a case with New Scotland Yard, congratulations on that. We're all here in London so we thought we could all get together with all the usual suspects."

"I'm busy." Sherlock stated.

"We know," Carleton handed Sherlock a business card after he wrote something on the back. "When are you not?"

"We'll let you get back to it." Hatch smiled. "It was good to finally meet you John." He said as he passed the doctor to leave. He mimed a phone with his hand at his face and mouthed 'call us' to Sherlock.

Carleton patted Sherlock on the shoulder as he went to the door. When the sound of the front door open and closed John turned to Sherlock.

"They seem . . . nice." John remarked.

"Relative." Sherlock walked to the kitchen to examine the growing thing in the fridge.

John followed him and leaned against the wall to watch Sherlock with his experiment.

"Were you ever going to tell me about them?" John finally asked. He was tired of the secrets. "Are you going to tell me anything? You've worked things out with Mycroft – how? What did you do those three years across Europe? Who else have you met? Why haven't you told me anything? Look, I understand that there are somethings that you did while you were hiding that you don't want to talk about, but – "

"John," Sherlock had his back to John looking over his experiment on the table. He could hear the heaviness in John's breath from his rapid questions. "There's an appalling directness about your questions. They come at me like bullets."

John waited for Sherlock to go on and the air felt heavy as he waited. Soon enough, Sherlock turned around to face him.

"I am expecting something within the next week," He explained attaching sincerity to each of his words as best he could. He knew that he would not being able to keep John in the dark for much longer; especially since meeting the Hatcherson and Carleton. "Once that occurs I will answer any and all questions you have. You have my word."

"I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear it now." John's words were brimming with sarcasm. He wanted to snap at Sherlock, but he resisted. But that sense of secrets and deception ate away at him.

When Sherlock did not answer, John threw up his hands and went to bed. Sherlock listen to John's footsteps up the stairs until his friend reached his room. With the gentle thud of a door closing Sherlock checked his phone.

There was still no reply.

He found that to be very out of character.

-MHSHEH-

Most people would say that cold is a numbing sensation.

She wished that she was numb, in body and in mind. Not to feel the hard ground beneath her or the wall behind her, or feel the aches and pains throughout her body. The cold prickled at her skin highlighting where it hurt the most.

She just did not want to feel anything. She knew her emotions were being manipulated, but it was becoming harder to rationalize.

It was becoming harder to do anything, really.

Breathe deeply and do not scream; it was slowly becoming a mantra in her increasingly muddled mind. Her point of focus.

She closed her eyes as the shuffle of footsteps approached the barred door.

Her eyes opened with the door and she stared defiantly to the bright light.

Alright then, next round.

* * *

Translation Notes:

*Thanks cost nothing.

**Hard words break no bones.


	5. Revealing Facts

Much thanks to 'a wolf is a perfect paradox' for her help keeping characters in character, and to 'lackie' for brain storming with me.

* * *

"Damn!" Sherlock cursed under his breath as he left the building. "Completely useless!"

"Just because he couldn't give you the answers you wanted doesn't make the man useless." John said quickly following his friend.

"I was referring to his capabilities as a security officer. His salary is a waste." Sherlock continued along the sidewalk.

John knew what was coming and decided not to resist the natural course of things. "Alright then, how?"

"The worn paperback he had badly hidden under the clipboard. There were more in the slightly opened top drawer of the desk. Top drawers are usually reserved for objects often used because of the ease of access. He had no less than a dozen books stuffed in that drawer. If he was doing his job he wouldn't require so much reading material to pass the time."

The interview of the brokerage firm's front desk security officer, who was the last to see Annie Moore, was not as helpful as the two men had hoped.

When Sherlock was finished with his short rant John moved on to the next question. "So what now?"

"I need to look at her flat. Taxi!"

-MHSHEH-

Annie Moore had lived in a comfortable flat, well within her means and not too extravagant. No pets, friendly neighbors and clean.

Or it was clean until Sherlock had at it.

At the end of his extensive messy examination Sherlock gained a few theories and conclusions. Most of which John did not register because he was too busy looking aghast at the mess. One did catch his attention.

"She took the same route to work at the same time during the week." Sherlock announced.

"It would be easy to know her schedule then." John reasoned. Another look around the room made him shake his head. "How are you going to explain this mess?" John reluctantly picked up a few items discarded by Sherlock in his frantic search and attempted to return them as closely to their original location as possible.

"Irrelevant." Sherlock deflected; a bit annoyed that John did not take note of his conclusions and seemed more interested in the mess than what Sherlock had to say.

"Not to the landlord." John shot back. "We're not leaving until this is straightened out."

"If you insist," Sherlock sighed as he stood. "I'll leave you to it."

"Sherlock." John gave his friend a warning look.

Sherlock held the look for a few moments before rolling his eyes. "Very well." Then picked up the books at his feet; he surprised John by actually returned the books in an orderly fashion and not in a haphazard manner. If he would do that once in awhile at Baker Street John would be ecstatic.

"If she took the same route to work everyday, is that what we're doing next after this?" John asked. It was mostly for conversation sake but in reality it was really to push Sherlock to include him in whatever he was planning next. Since the arrival of the previously unknown friends earlier in the week, John felt that Sherlock had left him on the sidelines in regards to the truth and explanation of his time away than he originally thought. John was determined not to allow this to continue to happen.

"She was taken in a violent manner; as evident by the bruises on her arms and legs." Sherlock stated as he rearranged the papers on a desk; most likely not in any form or fashion, just piles. "We know it wasn't a random attack, this was well planned, well executed. Hence she was taken in a place relatively hidden from general view that the killer knew she would most definitely pass."

So, they would be running about London. Nothing new there.

-MHSHEH-

It was an odd sensation, especially when one was aware of it. The loss of blood.

She had little strength to sit up, so she laid on the floor where she was so unceremoniously dumped by her captors.

Her arm laid before her face. She had really liked the blouse she had on, but now it was truly beyond any form of repair. Blood from newly acquired cuts seeped through the material adding more hideous shades of unsightly browns and muted reds.

She suddenly felt another liquid more across her skin. Her face.

Had they cut her there? No, no they had not.

It was not blood; it moved too quickly across the surface to have the same viscosity as blood.

Tears. She was crying.

The question that screamed in her head – why was this happening?

-MHSHEH-

With the lack of evidence and the threat of the case, his first case with the Yard was going cold, and it left Sherlock in a foul mood.

Never a good thing.

He knew how the victim was killed and when, but not where, who or why. It resulted in an interesting concerto of violin music in Baker Street. John was not sure how to describe Sherlock's new composition but he knew it was beginning to grate on his nerves and threaten his sanity.

"Sherlock!" The music screeched to a halt.

"What am I missing?" Sherlock demanded of himself almost throwing the violin. "There has to be something that reveals the killer. Why can't I see it?"

Fearing for the violin's well being John took the instrument from Sherlock and returned it to it's case. He also made sure that the lock to his gun safe was not picked. No sign of forced entry, which was a relief.

"I need to think." Sherlock plopped into his chair. John noticed the slight twitch in Sherlock's feet.

"You need to calm down." John remarked before turning to his own chair.

"I am calm!"

"Right, I'll just tell that to the three beakers remains I swept up yesterday."

"They had it coming."

"Like the wall."

"Exactly."

"Ever think that you're not missing anything?" At this point John was willing to suggest anything to get Sherlock to stop being so jittery.

It surprised him when Sherlock actually stilled and that expression of connecting all the relative points enveloped his face.

"She wasn't killed because she was hated or had money." Sherlock muttered as the last of pieces fell into place.

"What?"

"I need to call Lestrade."

Sherlock sprang from his chair and went to his room to retrieve his phone leaving a stun and confused John, who was at least thankful that the music would not continue that day or anything else broken.

-MHSHEH-

"She wasn't involved in any illegal business, an illicit affair, her salary was modest, and I can't find any hidden skeletons in her closet. There is no reason this woman should have been killed; none of the basic motivations apply here." Isabelle cried exasperated before banging her head on the notes on the table.

"Feeling better?" Lestrade asked unfazed by his Sergeant's behavior. After the years of working with Sherlock and his erratic behavior before John came along, he felt nothing ever could He lean back against his desk with his arms crossed and kept looking at everything they had pinned on the wall beside the desk hoping to see something that they missed. Anything to get the case going again. But as it was twenty minutes ago – nothing.

Isabelle shot her head up. "Yes actually." Her tone was much calmer. She then rested her head in her hand and looked over the Lestrade. "Any thoughts?"

"You're right." Lestrade had a thought. He turned around and placed both hands on the desk and looked straight at Isabelle. "There is no reason to kill her."

"What are you saying?" Her brows furrowed together as she took in his words. She sat up mulling over it.

At that moment both their mobiles pinged.

"I still don't understand why Holmes has to text both of us when he trusts you more." Isabelle opened the text. "Besides he still hasn't gotten me that coffee yet."

'No motive. Killer unconnected to victim. -SH'

"Is that what you were thinking?" Isabelle looked up to Lestrade.

"Pretty much." Lestrade replaced his phone back on the desk and took a sip of coffee from one of the two cups that stood near the edge of the scattered paperwork.

"Are you going to tell him you had the same idea?"

"No." He pocketed his phone.

Lestrade had that look, Isabelle recognized it. It was that same look he got when she first worked under him and he was gently pushing her towards a conclusion that he already figured out. Those moments when he was teaching her to be a better detective.

She smiled when she understood. "Have you ever?"

"No."

"Why ever not?"

"Why rain on his parade?" Lestrade smiled standing up straight to get a refill of coffee for both of them.

-MHSHEH-

As part of his agreement to consult with the Yard Sherlock had to discuss his findings and theories with the lead investigator of whatever case he was on. He ranked his newly required regulations on a list ranging from strong dislike to absolute loathing; this ranked rather close to the loathing. He did not revel in the idea of having to explain point by point a deduction he had with someone like Donovan or anyone in general.

For Lestrade, however, Sherlock was willing to withhold that complaint and actually do it. Lestrade was one of the few detectives on the Force who would understand the first go at it.

They had piled into Lestrade's office without too much difficulty. Lestrade sat behind his desk, in front of John and Sherlock took the chairs. Isabelle was the last to come in bearing cups of coffee for everyone. After handing everyone a cup, she saw no empty chair available. John was about to offer his when she just perched herself on the front edge of Lestrade's desk so that she face John and Sherlock and crossed her legs.

There was a moment when John thought that Lestrade would tell her to get off. But Lestrade just handed over her cup to her.

"What?" Isabelle asked when she saw John looking at her.

"Nothing." He said quickly and turned away in time to see the tail-end of a smirk disappearing from Sherlock's face.

Sherlock was amused by the Sergeant's actions and John's reactions to them.

"The general consensus of everyone connected to the case is that Annie Moore was well liked." Sherlock began.

"Made it difficult to find any suspects." Lestrade remarked.

"There's something more devious going on." Sherlock sounded a bit excited. Lestrade was going to own that to the fact that the case turned interesting for Sherlock. "This was an impersonal attack from someone who never met Annie Moore, but knew everything about her."

There was pause in the room as everyone else took in what Sherlock just said.

"How could you possibly know that?" Isabelle asked.

"I thought you didn't want to hear my deductions, just my conclusions." Sherlock looked at her pointedly. John could have hit him up side the head; he tried to give Sherlock the look that the consulting detective knew meant he had erred in some way; but Sherlock was locked in a stare with the Sergeant.

"That's only when you're doing the whole 'behold my genius' spiel." Isabelle took a sip of her coffee, seemingly unaffected by Sherlock's jab.

"Why do you say the killer knew everything about her?" Lestrade asked before his Sergeant and the Consultant could get into a verbal joust. Knowing both of them it would end in a stalemate.

"The injuries on the body." Sherlock rifled through the autopsy pictures and pulled out a few to show his point.

It was at this point that John looked at Isabelle and Lestrade, and was glad to see that he was not the only one who was confused by Sherlock's explanation.

Seeing the confusion, Sherlock delved into his explanation. "Look at her forearms; they each have twenty-nine cuts parallel to each other staring from the elbow to the wrist. The victim was twenty-nine. Her roommate remarked at her enjoyment of dancing, each foot bore a fifth metatarsal avulsion fracture, more commonly known as a 'dancer's break'. Due to the nature of her job she did a lot of typing, both her hands and wrists were broken in a fashion to simulate untreated carpal tunnel."

"Wait," Lestrade held up his hand motioning Sherlock to stop talking. "Are you saying that her injuries correspond to what she did in life?"

"Yes."

"The killer would have to spent weeks observing her to figure everything out." Lestrade pointed out. "Maybe even a month or two."

"Exactly!" Sherlock smiled. This was certainly a good case to challenge his skills.

"Sherlock, you sound a bit too excited." John murmured behind his coffee mug.

"Kinda creepy." Isabelle deadpanned.

Lestrade expected an equally deadpanned response from Sherlock, but none came. No, there was more of a strange look on Sherlock's face as he looked at Isabelle of being reminded of something, but he shook it off quickly.

"Any leads on possible suspects? We've come up empty on our end." Lestrade looked down at his notebook making sure he had everything noted. When no answer came, he glanced up to the consultant.

Sherlock had his hands laced together, covering his lips that were pressed together in dissatisfaction.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade prompted; he did not like that look of aversion on Sherlock, it made him feel uneasy.

Now John, Isabelle and Lestrade were all looking at Sherlock waiting for an answer, which only serve to irritate him.

"Unfortunately, there's nothing to reveal the identity of the killer." Sherlock said resignedly through gritted teeth. He looked away; he did not to admit that he was lost, but he could not avoid it forever.

"What?" John was surprised by Sherlock's declaration; so were Isabelle and Lestrade.

"There's nothing to deduce the identity of the killer," Sherlock repeated, frustration dripping from his words. "The killer knew my methods well enough to erase anything that would point in that direction."

"You have nothing on the killer?" Isabelle asked; the grip on her coffee cup unconsciously tighten causing her knuckles to whiten. She started at Sherlock in surprise. "So, what you're saying is you're about as lost as we are?"

Sherlock was highly tempted to snap at Isabelle for her question, but that would be counter-productive and probably induce her to say another witty annoying remark.

Resisting a frustrated sigh, Sherlock turned his gaze to Lestrade. "I wouldn't go as far as that, but. . . it is an unfortunate conclusion. It's a man with a medical background."

"We might as well arrest Dr. Watson with that description." Isabelle waved in John's general direction to prove a point. "No offense." She quickly added.

"None taken." John waved off her concern.

"That's because that's all the evidence is saying." Sherlock was frustrated. He had discovered so much about the case, but so little on the killer. He had accepted the fact in the early years of being a consultant that there were one or two things that would escape his notice. But those one or two things were minor and had little bearing on the overall matter. For him to see so little and the killer acted with that intention was to say the least disconcerting.

There was always a stunned silence after Sherlock gave his conclusions; but this was not the sort of silence that Sherlock enjoyed.

It was uncomfortable.

It was heavy with uneasiness.

No one would dare say that Sherlock was losing his touch. He had solved every one of his private cases he had taken before this one with the Yard. That only served to stir his ire even more.

"Ya know," Lestrade finally spoke, breaking the silence. He leaned back in his chair and tossed his pen on his desk. "All the times I dreamed of this moment, and it isn't nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be."

* * *

I apologize for the delay and I hope that this makes up for it.

Please read and review to let me know what you think.


	6. An Interview and Help

My eternal gratitude goes to 'a wolf is a perfect paradox' for all her help. I could not write this without her. Again, thank you.

* * *

"So to sum up – if it wasn't for the fact that there was a body in the middle of the room, it wouldn't be considered a crime scene due to lack of evidence." Lucas leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his face. Lestrade noted the frustrated edge in the chief's voice.

"Yes sir; it's almost as if -" Lestrade stopped, he was not sure.

"You have a theory." Lucas prompted.

"There's nothing to support it sir. I would rather not until it's more substantiated."

"Humour me then."

Lestrade quietly sighed. "The location of the body dump was done in such a way that they expected Sherlock Holmes to be there and know his methods well enough to cover up."

"When did you decided to call in Holmes?"

Lestrade was surprised by how Lucas did not scoff at his theory. With each interaction that Lestrade with the chief superintendent, he felt more at ease with him. Lucas was open minded, but not so much that he did not have a mind of his own. Unlike his predecessor, Lucas allowed Lestrade and other D.I.s more freedom with their movements regarding cases. Come to think of it, Lucas only seemed to get involve when someone was not doing their job.

"On the way to the scene sir."

"And the entire station has been gossiping and wondering when Holmes would be brought in on a case to consult." Lucas said thoughtfully. "Would you say that Holmes is stumped then?"

There were possibilities of who the killer was; someone with a detailed understanding of how the station worked and forensics to counter any findings. Such possibilities lead to an uncomfortable that someone within the force could be part of the murder. Lucas wondered if going outside the force would be beneficial.

"He can tell you exactly how the victim died and identify the victim." Lestrade stated. He was hoping that he did not make a mistake calling in Sherlock too soon. He understood the consultant's need for interesting cases and Lestrade had his own need of the insight provided by Sherlock.

"May I throw out a thought?"

"I'm open to suggestions, sir."

"I just have one," Lucas open a desk draw and pulled out a pad to write a note. "There is an American professor by the name of Wilhelm Lehrer. He's here in London giving a lecture series, I think on philosophy or something of the like. You are now probably wondering why I'm telling you this." Lucas torn the sheet of paper from his pad and held it out to Lestrade. "Before he took up teaching philosophy he was a criminal profiler with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Years ago I worked on a case where Lehrer worked in consultation over the phone; he was able to proved insight that opened a different avenue of investigation that directly lead to the arrest of the perpetrator."

Lestrade looked at the note; Fordham University London Center next to Heythrop College and the time of that night's lecture. "You believe he could help with this case."

"Especially since he has worked cases with equally difficult premises." Lucas rummaged through his desk again. "He was especially good with serial cases. A sort of knack for it, if you will."

"Serial killers?" Lestrade wanted to make sure he hard his Superior officer correctly.

"Serial killers." Lucas repeated before handing Lestrade a file from his desk. "I keep references of cases that deal with usual forensic tactics and investigative methods. There is a brief summary of some of the cases that Lehrer worked from public information releases."

"Do you believe that the killer studied these old cases?" Lestrade opened the file. He first caught sight of black and white photocopies of old crime scene photographs. Horrendous crime scenes that could even make an experienced investigator like Lestrade gag a little.

"Just covering the basics."

-MHSHEH-

Isabelle sat quietly in the car looking through the file from Lucas as Lestrade drove. The graininess of the copies could not hide the gruesomeness of the deaths.

"I don't know which is worst." Isabelle closed the file, not wanting to read any more. "That it might be the same person or someone new thought that it was a great idea and tried to replicate it."

Lestrade did not respond. How could he? Both options were equally bad, neither were things he wanted to contemplate or consider. If the meeting with this Lehrer did not take too long he would take the file to Sherlock to get his opinion on the matter.

"How is working with Sherlock?" Lestrade decided to ask. He could not help but ask now that the consultant detective was in his mind and knowing how badly he had worked with Donovan, Lestrade wanted to check in and make sure Isabelle was handling everything okay. He did not want a repeat of his last Sergeant with Sherlock.

Isabelle had been expecting Lestrade to ask her that. She had listened to the whispers that went around the station about Sherlock. About how impossible it was to work with the consultant, that he was arrogant, annoying, and insufferable. Despite all the negative feeling towards Sherlock, no one could deny that cases were solved under him.

She shrugged. "It's not so bad."

If Lestrade did not need to keep his eyes on the road he would be giving her a dubious look. "Really."

"Well, I mean – he's not the most . . ." Isabelle sighed. "I understand why people at the station hate his guts or at least really don't like him. I'm not saying that some of his harsher remarks don't sting, 'cause they do, but at the same time I'm not going to let that get in the way of the investigation. I can work with a jackass as long as said jackass does his job."

"And?"

"I'll be fine." She insisted as they arrived at their destination.

Lestrade parked the car, turned off the engine and turned to look at his Sergeant. Feeling his eyes on her, she stole a quick glace before looking away and conceded with a sigh.

"I'm concerned."

"Why?"

"He seems . . . distracted." She turned in her car seat so she mirrored Lestrade. "Like he's got several things on his mind on top of this case."

"I know Sherlock can handle several cases at once." Lestrade assured her thinking back to when Sherlock first began consulting. Sherlock always seemed to have another case on his mind or at least one of his famed strange experiments. It was like his mind was always racing ahead and needed several things to keep it in check so he could stay in the present; almost a distraction Lestrade mused.

"I don't think it's a case." She stressed. "From what I understand he has been on the lam for about three years. Running, hiding for that long can do something to a person."

"On the lam?"

"Running from the police," Isabelle explained, mentally shaking her head. Her father's old partner would use that expression and Isabelle picked it up on her many visits to America. "The past year he's been caught up in inquiries and readjusting to living in the open with little chance of having a normal, or as normal as he can get, moment. This is his first case, maybe he's nervous, maybe he's not, I don't know, but he's dealing with something."

Lestrade nodded as considered her words. He had noticed that something was strained between Sherlock and John the last few times he saw them. At first he had put this down to the normal squabbles he had seen them always have, but now as he considered his Sergeant's words he had to reason if it was something more.

Before he thought too much on that subject he wanted to get back to his original question.

"So the problem you have with Sherlock is not because he's rude but because you're concern for his well-being?"

"As I have stated Boss, I can work with a jackass as long as they can do they job." Isabelle smiled opening the car door.

Lestrade smiled.

-MHSHEH-

Lestrade and Isabelle entered the lecture hall. It was full of people of all sorts, all intently listening to the speaker, who happen to be the man they were looking for.

Lestrade would not describe the man at the podium as old, or really young for that matter. But there was an ageless quality to him that gave him the appearance of wisdom and knowledge that was confirmed by the words that came from him. He struck the detective as an old fashion professor with all the subtle stereotypes floating about him and the dignity of bearing which a lecturer needs; but his clothes were not very worn as one would think with a professor, indeed they were very fine. Almost expensive. That struck Lestrade as an odd combination, professor appearance with expensive clothes.

Lestrade and Isabelle settled in the back of the hall and waited for the man to finish.

"Thus ends, in unavoidable inadequacy, the attempt to utter the unutterable things." He spoke with an approachable authority and small hand motions. He did not exactly stand behind the podium on the stage, but stood to the side and casually leaned against it. "These are my ultimate attitudes towards life; the soils for the seeds of doctrine. These in some dark way I thought before I could write, and felt before I could think, basically before I could rationalize: so that we may proceed more easily, I will roughly recapitulate the points now.

"I felt down in my bones; first, that this world does not explain itself, at all. It may be a miracle with a supernatural explanation; maybe it's a conjuring trick, with a natural explanation. But if it _is_ a conjuring trick, if it is to satisfy me, the explanation will have to be better than the natural explanations I have heard. The thing is essentially magic, true or false.

"Second, I came to feel as if magic must have a meaning, and meaning must have someone, a person, to mean it. There was something personal in the world, as in, let us say, a work of art; whatever it meant it meant violently. Third, I thought this purpose beautiful in its old design, in spite of its defects, such as . . . let's go with – dragons. Dragons are fun.

"Fourth, that the proper form of thanks to it is some form of humility and restraint: we should thank God for beer and Burgundy by not drinking too much of them. After a certain point how can you tell what you're drinking or what you're saying. So, please be wise to your drinking." There was a murmur of laughter in the crowd. "We owed, also, an obedience to whatever made us.

"And last, and the strangest, there had come into my mind a vague impression that in some way all good was a remnant to be stored and held sacred out of some primordial ruin. Man had saved his goods as Robin Crusoe saved his goods: he had saved them from a wreck. On a side note, please do try not to get stranded on an island, highly inconvenient." There was another, though louder, murmur of laughter.

"All this I felt and the age gave me no encouragement to feel it. And all this time I had not even thought of any form of theology, Christian or otherwise" He took a few note cards from the podium as an polite but enthusiastic applaud began in the hall. He gave small nod of the head and polite waves as he sat down.

Another man stood at the podium and began to give a brief general house keeping rules, the time of the next talk in the series held there and where the speaker would be next.

By the reaction of the people in the seats, Lestrade could hazard a safe guess that the next talk would be just as crowded as this one. There was a word of thanks to Wilhelm and another round of applause was given. As people began to file out Lestrade made his move forward with Isabelle closed behind.

"Dr. Wilhelm Lehrer." Lestrade said as he reached him. The man turned and Lestrade was once again struck by the paradox that was this man; it seemed more palpable up close.

"If you have a question I'm afraid you'll have to ask it at the next lecture. Or email, I can do email." Wilhelm was patting down his jacket as he spoke, at a lost looking for something. Reaching into the breast pocket he breathed a sigh of relief and pulled out his phone. "I do apologize, but I think I'm late for something."

"This is rather urgent." Lestrade held up his badge.

Wilhelm's brows shot up in bemusement before nodding. "I see."

"I just got a call from the director from NYUL; wanted to know . . . Something wrong?" A woman approached from behind Wilhelm wearing a concern face. She had that same ageless quality as Wilhelm, but had a more rustic aura about her. Unlike Wilhelm she did not wear professional attire but a more casual business outfit and still had that similar approachable authority that demanded respect.

"I hope not; it's the police." He explained to her. He did not turn around as he knew the woman behind him.

"I've already explained that I wasn't packing plastic explosives; it was peanut butter." The woman sounded slightly strained on the subject, probably as a result of explaining over and over. Isabelle resisted a laugh and bit her lower lip to keep it that way. "I already promise in future I pack the peanut butter in my check baggage."

"I doubt these homicide detectives are interested in our peanut butter supply." He said after he finished with a text and replaced his phone in his jacket. He smiled and held out his hand. "Wilhelm Lehrer, as you know; and this is my wife, Amelia."

"DI Greg Lestrade," He motioned to Isabelle. "Sergeant Isabelle Bordeaux of Scotland Yard. We like to ask you a few questions."

"Have we done something?" Amelia asked. Her voice was full of concern and confusion. As far as she could tell, they had not broken any laws of the land, intentionally or otherwise. There was a certain furrow of the brow that caught Isabelle's attention and drew her to other aspects of the American woman's stance. A slight shift in the feet, squaring of the shoulders, a cock in the head

"No," Lestrade assured her. "We simply want your expertise on something."

"Ask away." Wilhelm waved his hands giving the all clear.

Lestrade held his hand to Isabelle who gave him the manila envelope with the autopsy photographs. "We were hoping you could help with an ongoing conversation."

"Fair warning, I haven't been involved in a legal investigation in years." Wilhelm remarked as he placed his reading glasses on his nose. "Not since I retired . . . "

His next words were lost to silence as he looked at the picture that Lestrade held out. Wilhelm gaped, his breath hitched and Amelia looked away, her face hardened with disgust. The picture was of the victim's back laden with all the cuts and gashes. Seeing some color drain from Wilhelm's face, Lestrade mercifully put away the picture.

"The stuff of nightmares." Amelia quietly whispered to Wilhelm. He knew exactly what she meant.

"Perhaps this would be better somewhere more private." He suggested.

Wilhelm slowly nodded, taking off his glasses. "We can go to the station, I need to see everything before I'm certain."

"Certain of what?" Isabelle asked.

"That you don't have a serial killer on your hands."

-MHSHEH-

She shuddered against the air. With a strained effort she tired to blow the strands of wet hair out of her face with little success.

As if to mock her situation another bout of water splashed against her face causing more of her hair to stick.

It was dreadfully cold; enough to cause her violently shudder again. At least the remnants of the dirt, blood and sweat were being rinsed away.

A click then a low hum.

With a deep breath she closed her eyes and waited for their next move.

-MHSHEH-

Lestrade and Isabelle gave them a ride to New Scotland Yard and the couple was silent until they reached the station.

"I should sue Fate." Amelia said suddenly as they entered the building.

Wilhelm snorted a laugh and gave his wife a smile. "I promise to make it up to you."

"That's all well and good," Amelia sighed. Wilhelm draped an arm over her shoulders after they took off their jackets. "But I still want it out of Fate's pocket."

Isabelle smiled at the exchange between. She sneaked a glance at her boss who was smirking. They took the Americans to a conference room and motioned them to sit. Lestrade placed the file of the autopsy report in front of them and sat himself. He watched them carefully as he took out his notepad from his jacket pocket.

"The first person who popped into my mind was Tomica." Wilhelm explained as he took a seat. His wife sat next to him and they unconsciously held hands. "A very methodical serial killer with a strong view of how things should be in the world." Wilhelm perched reading glasses mid way down his nose and opened the file, spending more time on the pictures than the written report looking at everything with a critical eye. There was a vague similarity to Sherlock's method in how Wilhelm was examining everything that Lestrade almost laugh.

"The methodology in the pictures and Tomica's bear an interesting resemblance," He leaned back in his chair and looked to Lestrade. "Which makes me lean towards a copy cat than the actually man himself; the pattern is a little off. He left very interesting marks on all his victims' backs. A series of cuts running parallel to the spinal cord; straight cuts interspersed with smaller slanted cuts. We knew that there was a pattern and my team deciphered that it was morse code."

"Are you saying he literately cut a message into their backs?" Lestrade wanted to be clear on what he was hearing as he took notes in his pad. Wilhelm nodded and Lestrade continued. "Did they actually say anything coherent?"

"It was mostly his philosophy or sometimes a mocking message for us. With that discovery we were able to conclude that Tomica was much more dangerous than we had originally profiled." Wilhelm let go of Amelia's hand and rested his elbows on the table. "His philosophy was one of a perverted yin and yang view of the world, for every good act there must be a bad one; essentially the world must remain in balance and he was the one appointed by God to do so."

"So God appointed him to kill people." Isabelle made little effort to hide the disgust in her voice.

"No, God appointed him to keep balance – there's a difference. Killing people is just one method he employed. Psychological torture suited his needs just as well." Wilhelm adjusted the pictures in front of him to be more evenly stacked. "I can tell you of forty people in intensive psychological care he pushed to the edge and ruined without leaving a single mark on their bodies.

"Those forty are the only ones we could actually connect to Tomica. The ones that we simply suspected a connection committed suicide before we could confirm anything, but they all fit into the pattern of Tomica's attacks. His methods, to say the least, were resourceful.

"He was very intelligent and he was stanch in his beliefs in his twisted vision of the world. A dangerous combination." Wilhelm concluded thoughtfully.

"How is that a dangerous combination?" Isabelle asked.

"Ever hear of the saying, 'Faith can move mountains'?; it is Tomica's faith that drove him, motivated him. Because he believed that he was appointed by God he was not subjugated to the laws of man nor should he be obligated to listen to any authority figure of any sort. It would not be a stretch to say that Tomica viewed himself as a vigilante for God."

"Why do you think that it's a copy cat and not Tomica himself?" Isabelle asked.

"Unless he made a deal with the Devil, it's unlikely he survived being shot in the chest and sucked under a strong current when he fell over a bridge. I like to think that his body has been subjugated to the ravages of time." Wilhelm stated. There was a cold flash in his eyes and his voice had an edge to it.

Amelia kept her eyes down to her feet. Tomica never brought out the best in her husband. Too much darkness that was well fought to stay at bay, and desired to be forgotten.

" 'Like to think'?" Lestrade picked up on that phrase.

"Tomica's body was never found." Wilhelm explained.

"You shot him four times in the chest." Amelia pointed out looking up to Wilhelm. "I doubt if he survived that."

Wilhelm looked to his wife. "You and I both know that unless one is shot point blank in the head there is always a slim chance." He turned back to the detectives. "But due to the inactivity since that point I see little reason to suspect Tomica. A man who believed as strongly as he did in his cause would not just stop."

"How similar are the injuries?" The detective asked. He noticed the hurt expressions passed between the couple; the original case must have been very hard on them both. He could appreciate that, what with the breakdown of his own marriage due to the pressures of the job.

"Close," Wilhelm looked away from Amelia. "At first glance it's easy to think that it's Tomica's work, but the pattern is sloppy. And look here," He pulled out a picture of the victim's back. "It's cut to look like morse code, but it's not."

"You can read morse code?" Isabelle asked.

"Boy scout," Wilhelm shrugged. "Anyway, it's gibberish; they wanted to look similar to Tomica's victims. The FBI never released the morse code cuts to the public; actually, come to think of it we didn't release detail information on the injuries, just that they were extensive."

"Do you think that we could get a copy of those reports?" Lestrade requested.

"You would have to go to the current head of the department." Wilhelm leaned back. "The best I can offer you is to give my professional opinion and strongly suggest to them that they allow you access to the information."

"In other words, Detective, my husband will make sure your request is put through quickly and not declined." Amelia smiled at Lestrade. She had not spoken in awhile causing Lestrade to almost forget her presence. It also caused Lestrade to look at Amelia, really look at her wearing that sweet smile.

There was something off about that smile. Lestrade would not go as far to say that the sentiment behind the smile was false, but the smile had the unfortunate air of being too well practiced. Almost like the smile one would find on the wives of politicians. Her eyes did not match her smile.

Considering what they had been discussing it did not surprise Lestrade that the American woman had become a bit stand offish and smile looked forced. But there was still something about her and her husband that Lestrade found curious; he decided to file it away in his mind until another time.

"Thank you, Mrs. Lehrer." Lestrade gave his own well practiced polite smile. There was suddenly a dreadful feeling that there was more to the Lehrers than people first assumed.

* * *

Authoress' Note: Wilhelm's lecture is quoted/paraphrase from a passage in 'Orthodoxy' by GK Chesterton. Chesterton is a very prolific English writer from the early twentieth century, writing everything from essays and articles to plays and novels. Completely underrated and absolutely brilliant; writers like Agatha Christie and Dorthy L Sayers were great admirers of his work and were influenced by it. On a random note, he wrote his own series of short story mysteries, 'The Father Brown Mysteries' in which he was one of the first to investigate the techniques of how a conclusion was found in the mystery and gave enough clues to let the reader figure out the mystery. They are a good read so check them out!

Authoress' Note 2: The peanut butter bit is true. A friend of mine had his peanut butter confiscated at the airport because the consistency was the same as plastic explosive. You will now never look at your PBJ sandwiches the same way again. ;)


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